


In the Key of Life

by beschleunigte



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aromantic Mikasa Ackerman, Cunnilingus, F/F, Face-Sitting, Oral Sex, Pansexual Sasha, Platonic Sex, Polyamory, Queerplatonic Relationships, post-grad AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 04:37:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5729782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beschleunigte/pseuds/beschleunigte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of less-than-worksafe one-shots about sex, life, and whatever the hell it is you're supposed to do after undergrad studies. Influenced in part by Torajiro Kishi's <i>Maka-Maka</i> and in part by avoidingavoidance's <i>This Is Mouse Month</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Key of Life

**Author's Note:**

> Hello naughty children it is sin time. This seemed pretty well-received over on Tumblr, so I've decided to expand it into a full 30-part challenge, which will probably skip around the timeline here and there. I guess technically this one fills prompt #6 (Blowjob), so. Here goes nothing!

“You want me to do _what?”_

Of course Sasha’s sitting there on her bed, cross-legged, doe-eyed, with her hands jammed in her lap. Like she’s talking about the weather, or the song playing on the radio, or one of her upcoming term papers or shifts at her family’s deli. Venting, like she and Mikasa have taken to doing, can do so easily after months of friendship and months of… whatever arrangement this is. Platonic dating, with perks they’ve agreed to. “I want you to sit on my face,” she says (again), paying little mind to the stuffed animals propped up against her pillows, or the posters of her favorite bands plastered up on her walls.

Mikasa might feel like they were all watching her, if this were her room. She sticks to abstract art normally, photographs of things that wouldn’t spy on her in the middle of the night, whether she’s reading or pretending to write poetry or crying. She almost has the urge to turn at least one of the teddy bears face down—the big one that Sasha’s always been so keen on cuddling through her “boring” reading assignments. Maybe it would drain some of the heat from her face.

Wait.

Her _face._

And then it’s back to _Sasha’s face._

“Why would you want me to do _that?”_  she manages amid the urge to draw the hood of her sweater over her face. It wasn’t as though they’d done it before—it wasn’t as though they’d ever had their mouths anywhere below the waist. Fingers did just fine, always had. Even with first-time fumbling and the awkward conversation of what felt good for them, they were fine. Fingers were quiet. They kept breaths hidden behind the palm of her hand and moans of any volume locked in her throat right to the end.

At least they were an upgrade from pillows. Or from the bath faucet. Or the toothbrush tucked away in the bottom drawer of Mikasa’s nightstand. Wasn’t that something?

When Mikasa presses for an answer, Sasha rolls her eyes and shrugs as though it should have been obvious. “Because you’re attractive? And I want to. I mean, I want my mouth on you.” She says it so damn casually; it’s probably what makes Mikasa’s cheeks flare up even more. “I mean, who wouldn’t?”

Mikasa raises an eyebrow, takes some control back. “Everyone who isn’t you.”

“That’s a shame.” Sasha grins, all teeth, eyes twinkling under the bangs that spill onto her forehead. Like this is the person she knows and likes best, with just the right amount of bite and so few words to get it across. “Or maybe I’m just lucky, huh? Means I get to have these”—she leans forward and pats one of Mikasa’s thighs; Mikasa tries not to shiver—“all to myself. Great, right?”

“Yeah.” Mikasa presses her knuckles to her cheek, trying not to scowl at how hot it still is. “Great.”

“Hey.” Sasha quirks her lips and cocks her head to one side, toes wiggling as she draws her knees in toward her chest. “We don’t have to, y'know. If you’re not comfortable with it—”

“Hold on, okay? Just…” Maybe it comes out faster than Mikasa expected or intended, but isn’t that what’s supposed to happen in situations like this? Times when people present this kind of thing to you, offer so nonchalantly to make a mess of you, or at least that’s what they hope. “Just give me a second.” To process. She hopes she doesn’t need to say that out loud; it sounds weird to tack on the fact that she has to close her eyes and try to imagine Sasha’s head between her legs.

Or at least imagine that it’s about to happen _right now._

Her stomach lurches at the thought. Maybe it’s excitement, maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s like Schrödinger’s cat, where she won’t know until she’s in that moment. Granted, the moment where she’s probably clutching the spokes of Sasha’s headboard with her lip caught between her teeth—

Mikasa shudders.

“Okay,” she says, swallowing thickly. “Let’s do it.”

Sasha’s response is a kiss, slow but with purpose, with three fingertips pressed to Mikasa’s jaw. “You’ve gotta re _lax_ ,” she says against Mikasa’s lips—even her whispers sound like laughter. “It’s no good if you’re all wound up. The bad wound up.” Sasha gives her one more kiss, this time on the tip of her nose, and it’s times like these that it’s almost impossible to equate her to the girl who confirms orders in clipped tones and wraps sandwiches in the blink of an eye. Almost.

Sasha’s already on her feet and bending over in front of her bookshelf by the time Mikasa comes back to herself. “You have to take your pants off, you know,” she says, fiddling with the volume dial on her stereo. Louder. Like Sasha knows they’ll have to cover something up. Like she expects the noise already, in spite of past experience. “I can’t do it if you keep them on—I mean, maybe if it was just your underwear—”

Mikasa’s off the bed in an instant, clutching the waistband of her jeans—anything to make Sasha stop talking, to keep anyone from hearing over the music. (Not that anyone would—it’s just them and the posters in the apartment above the deli, but everything has ears to her.) She undoes them slowly, as if all the mental preparation dwells in each thread, and steps out of them once she pushes them down to her ankles.

Fuck. She forgot that she hadn’t shaved her legs in a couple of days. And other places, in a couple of weeks. It was hard to bother when coffee dates and vinyl and video games took precedence over sex more often than not.

“Eh, no big deal,” Sasha says, once she notices Mikasa awkwardly standing at the foot of the bed, picking at the hem of her boyshorts and rubbing her calf with her heel. “Just hair. Won’t it be like that once you move in with somebody?” She giggles. “You can’t be bothered to do that all the time, can you? ’Sides, I think it’s kinda…” She pauses, searching. “Cute?”

Okay. She’s definitely some kind of high off the anticipation. That has to be it. But then she’ll lie down, and Mikasa will kneel over her, and maybe it’ll wear off by then. Once Sasha’s face to—crotch? With her? She shuts her eyes and shakes her head, and once she sighs and opens her eyes again, there Sasha is, in front of her, fingers brushing the hem of her sweater.

“You can keep this on if you want,” she murmurs. “In case you’re still. Nervous, or something.”

Mikasa’s heart swells, and it’s so easy to kiss her then, easy to step out of her underwear and leave it behind in spite of how she presses her bare thighs together. Not so much to watch Sasha step away from her lips and lie back on the bed in expectation, but the soft smile on her face and the way she says, “Come here,” are enough to push Mikasa forward.

“What if I smell weird?” she asks with one knee on the edge of the bed.

“You’re not gonna smell weird,” Sasha assures her. “You’ll just smell like you.” She pauses. “Well. And like pussy too, I guess—”

_“Sasha!”_

_“What?”_

Mikasa’s abandoned the last shred of hope that she might be able to keep any kind of composure, and even though her legs and hands are already trembling (and she hopes Sasha doesn’t notice) she tugs on the hem of her sweater and rests a knee on either side of Sasha’s head. Slowly, she braces her hands on the headboard, still too cautious to sit back, and thankfully eye-level with plain wallpaper. Better to look at this than posters—or down at Sasha’s face.

But of course Sasha’s got hawk eyes, and Mikasa starts at the touch of fingertips against her waist, skimming the small of her back. “It’s okay,” Sasha murmurs. If there’s a smile in her voice, it’s soft. Comforting, like the first kiss she presses to the inside of Mikasa’s thigh. “And you smell fine. Musky—good musky.”

Mikasa’s not sure whether it’s the kiss or the fact that Sasha enjoys the smell of her that has her stomach turning again. She tenses either way, and Sasha hums against her skin, kissing again, and she draws in a steady breath, trying to ease the race in her pulse. It’s different from the trace of fingers, and—

“Mikasa?”

She swallows. “Yeah?”

“Has anyone ever eaten you out before?”

It’s probably the most inopportune question to ask when it’s going to happen regardless; Mikasa hesitates, then shakes her head, still unable to look down. “I meant it when I said ‘everyone who isn’t you.’”

Sasha stops. “ _Damn.”_

“Is that a good damn, or a bad damn?”

“It’s a ‘you’re about to see the Milky Way behind your eyes’ damn.”

Maybe it’s not the Milky Way just yet, but Mikasa can humor her with the image of a star or two when Sasha starts kissing her thighs again, especially at the flick of her tongue or the occasional nip. She shuts her eyes tight, takes a knuckle between her teeth, tries to hold back each whine that bubbles in her throat. It’s not fingers, and there isn’t even anything on her just yet, but Sasha’s so damn _close_  to her and not close _enough_  and—

And then Sasha’s smiling against her skin, and tugging her hand away from her mouth, and pressing her fingers against the coarse curls between her legs—to spread her, because she rocks her hips against the air .And then, without warning, pressing her tongue to her with a single, slow lick.

It’s foreign, the way any first thing is. But Mikasa moans. The kind that’s hard to hold back or pretend that it never happened. The kind that shakes her, hardly ever comes out even when she’s home alone. It’s warm, and it’s wet, and it’s pressure, and it’s too much and not enough all at the same time. “A-again,” she whispers, and Sasha laughs under her breath.

“Stars, right?” Sasha murmurs, like she’s an entirely different person—seasoned, and giving, and actually _sexy—_ and Mikasa only answers with a soft whimper and the nudge of her hips against nothing. “Come on,” and Sasha guides her hips down, until her knees are pressing hard into the mattress, until her fingers tighten and loosen against the rim of the headboard.

Mikasa can’t describe the feeling with words. People call it good, great, fucking amazing; the only thing she can conjure are the squeeze of her fists until her knuckles turn white, and the way her moans blend with the electropop on the radio, and the creak of the bed when she dares to move her hips against Sasha’s open mouth. And the gasp that Sasha steals from her when she wraps her arms around Mikasa’s thighs and pulls her down for more, as though it isn’t enough to press the flat of her tongue against her, or to draw teasing circles against her clit, or to suck on it and moan against the utter heat of her.

“Still good,” Sasha says with a sigh, drawing her closer with one hand, and Mikasa replies behind her cupped palm.

“What if I—ah, God—what if I suffocate y-you—mmm—”

 _“God,”_  Sasha groans, nails digging into Mikasa’s skin until she swears a shiver courses through her very blood. “What a way to go.” Another wet-sounding kiss, another whine from Mikasa’s lips. “Please do that.”

A flick of the tongue, and Mikasa drives her hips down, whimpering. “You’re delu—de _lusional—_ good, it's—”

“G-Good?”

 _“Yes._  Yes, yes, yes—” Her back is arching, and her arms are shaking as they cross, and her sweater’s on the floor. She’s all soft breaths again, too coiled for anything else until she feels— _feels—_ a loud moan against her skin. When she lifts her hips and musters up the courage to finally look down, she thinks she could come right there, at the sight of her wetness on Sasha’s lips and nose and chin. At the sight of Sasha with her eyes half-lidded and practically begging, from the press of her palm against the small of Mikasa’s back, to pull her back down again. Like she really wants to die like this.

Mikasa could probably die like this.

Sasha’s lip catches between her teeth as she bites out another moan, and there are the slick sounds Mikasa hadn’t noticed before, rhythmic circles and pumps. She tosses a glance behind her, and sure enough, Sasha’s hand has already wormed its way under her skirt, pushed her underwear aside. She looks down, and her lips feel swollen as they part in shock, and Sasha looks like she can’t be bothered to be ashamed. “Good,” she sighs—practically babbles. “Good, Mikasa, you’re so good like this, I—”

“Don’t,” Mikasa whispers between breaths, coaxing Sasha’s hand back to her hip, and under her shirt, over the cup of her bra. “I’ll do that,” she says, fumbling with the hook in the back. “I’ll take care of you, just—focus on me. Focus on me.”

“You?”

“Uh huh, yes—” The bra joins her sweater, and her fingers curl around the spokes of the headboard, just like she imagined. “S-stars. I want to see stars, Sasha.”

With a smile and no more words, Sasha eases her back down, teases her with kisses, indulges her with licks and sucks and a hand on her breast until Mikasa can hear every wet sound with every fiber of her body. Until she can practically feel instead of hear Sasha speak when she says, “Move, move your hips. Ride me. Ride my face, okay?”

And she’s too far gone to care or question if it might hurt. She rocks, and she moves, and she nearly doubles over, dark hair curtaining her face, each moan louder and more jagged than the last as her belly coils. “Good,” she gasps with each pulse of blood and heat, and tips her head back. “More, m-more, more—”

“Are you gonna come?” Sasha breathes, pulling back to use her fingertips in the meantime.

“Yeah, but, your mouth—”

“Gimme a second—” Sasha pauses, and the thought that Sasha might have swallowed some of her in the meantime sends a twinge of pleasure between her legs, enough to bring her close but not tip her over, not yet. “Getting sore…” She works her jaw for a moment, spit and fluid glistening on her skin, and her name is a shudder on Mikasa’s lips.

Mouths aren’t fingers, never will be fingers. They can’t reach inside her, but they don’t need to, not when Mikasa’s shaking like this, not when the urge to come bubbles behind her teeth. Not when she’s not even sure if she’s above begging if it’ll get her what she wants.

“You wanna come?” Sasha’s still using her hand, and it’s crazy how quickly Mikasa’s mind goes numb. “You wanna come, Mikasa?”

She nods, frantically, and for a split second she can’t remember if she moans Sasha’s name or God’s at the slide of Sasha’s tongue against her, warm and wet and flicking and circling and almost, almost, _almost—_

“Sasha, Sasha, Sasha- _ah—”_

Her hands drop from the headboard to the pillow, and she doubles over in time with the music, and posters be damned, she moans as loud as her body makes her. No hand to cover her mouth, nothing but the slither of Sasha’s hand from under her shirt to hold her down, to lick her through the orgasm, until her hips stop rocking and her limbs stop trembling and the galaxy stops exploding behind her damn eyes.

A galaxy.

God, just like Sasha told her.

A gentle pat against her thigh, and she at least has the sense to lift her hips so Sasha can breathe. And maybe so she can, too. “God,” she sighs, leaning on her elbows and bowing her head until it grazes the pillow, and Sasha wriggles out from underneath and tucks a lock of dark hair behind her ear. She still has spit on her chin, and whatever arousal is left in Mikasa allows for one last buck of her hips.

Sasha stifles what probably would have been a musical laugh, undoing and redoing her messy ponytail. “I don’t know if I should be saying ‘thank you’ or ‘you’re welcome.’”

“What about you?” Mikasa’s words are hollow, reedy, as if she has to remind herself where she actually is.

Sasha smiles and shakes her head. “You look like you’ve got jelly legs. I’ll be fine. Okay? You wanna go clean up?”

Mikasa’s answer is a dumb nod, followed by the absorption of the posters, and the sweater and bra on the floor, and the fact that the song on the stereo has already changed. And then followed by the buckle of her knees when she tries to stand.

With a roll of her eyes, Sasha slouches in front of Mikasa, hands on her knees. “I’ll carry you, bud. You want me to join you, too?”

Another nod from Mikasa, and Sasha piggybacks her to the bathroom. “I can take care of you underwater too.” She’s all reservation again, and maybe back in her element now that there’s only Sasha and the blankness of the tile to observe.

This time Sasha actually does laugh, setting her on the toilet and beginning to draw a bath. “Please don’t do that underwater,” she says. “I don’t want you to _literally_  drown in—”

But Mikasa’s the one to smile this time, holding up her hands and spreading her fingers wide to proudly show off her newly trimmed nails.


End file.
